


Breaking Character

by breathtaken



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Community: bbcmusketeerskink, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-02
Updated: 2014-12-02
Packaged: 2018-02-27 21:28:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2707406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Obviously, before we can take on their roles, we need to think about their sex profile,” Aramis says, reaching for another handful of Doritos.</i>
</p><p><i>“You just said </i>sex profile<i>,” Porthos points out.</i></p><p>
  <i>Of course, Aramis ignores him.</i>
</p><p>In which Aramis and Porthos roleplay Athos and d'Artagnan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breaking Character

**Author's Note:**

> For [this](http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/1213.html?thread=2095037) kink meme prompt: “Athos and d'Artagnan are lovers and so are Aramis and Porthos. One of the couples decides to roleplay the other during sex.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No!”

“You _promised_ ,” Aramis… _pouts_ , there’s no other word for it, and Porthos makes himself take a deep breath and count to three in his head before he answers.

“I said _within reason_. This is just – ridiculous.” He reaches over to try and flick Aramis on the ear, though as usual Aramis is too quick for him and pulls his head out of the way just in time. “I won’t be able to look Athos in the eye for days.”

“Ah! You said _won’t_ ,” Aramis replies triumphantly, “not _wouldn’t_. That means your subconscious has already accepted you’re going to do it. Now we’re just waiting for the rest of you to catch up.”

“Read one book and you think you’re a fucking psychologist,” Porthos grumbles; and he _isn’t_ accepting this, he reckons he still won’t be able to believe he’s doing it even as it happens, but – well.

That’s as good as accepting it, really, isn’t it.

“One and a half books,” Aramis retorts; _as if that’s so much better_ , Porthos thinks mutinously. “And if you do this for me, I’ll give you one afternoon, carte blanche.” His voice turns deep and sultry. “ _Anything_ you like.”

“Also, self-help doesn’t count as psychology,” Porthos points out. “And that’s a dangerous offer, even from you.”

“If there are things I’m not into, I haven’t found them yet,” Aramis grins suddenly – and it’s fucking absurd how proud he is of that, Porthos decides with a familiar sinking feeling, everything about this is fucking absurd.

In fact it’s just Aramis who’s fucking absurd, right down to the bone.

Porthos reaches for his beer.

“If we’re really going to do this…” he begins, glaring at the smug expression on Aramis’ face, “I’m going to need to be a whole lot drunker.”

Aramis puts a hand over his on the neck of the bottle.

“Not too drunk, darling,” he replies archly. “I’d hate for you to have to do this twice.”

 

* * *

 

“Obviously, before we can take on their roles, we need to think about their sex profile,” Aramis says, reaching for another handful of Doritos.

“You just said _sex profile_ ,” Porthos points out.

Of course, Aramis ignores him.

“Now, I’ve thought about this before –”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“- and I think it could go one of two ways. Either Athos is a stone-cold dom and d’Artagnan’s his eager-to-please love slave, or it’s candles and missionary position all the way – but either way, the key word is _intense_.” Aramis looks over and raises an eyebrow – and Porthos realises he’s actually expected to have an opinion on this. “Am I right?”

“I guess,” Porthos concedes, trying not to think too hard about just how right he suspects Aramis actually is.

His partner’s good at this sort of stuff, after all – sometimes frighteningly so.

And it doesn’t help that he’s still trying not to think about _any_ of it, still hoping for a reprieve at the eleventh hour.

“Good. I mean, there must be something really special there. I half-thought that was it for him, after You-Know-Who.”

“Aramis. She’s not Voldemort.”

“Milady, then,” Aramis continues, undaunted. “But seriously. I thought he’d sworn off romance forever. Who knew that all he needed was someone to adore him. Didn’t even tell us he was bi.”

“I guess he thought it wasn’t relevant, if he wasn’t going to date again,” Porthos replies neutrally; trying to ignore the echo of just how much that  _hurt_ to learn, after so many years of friendship. Years of Porthos telling Athos all his troubles, and him never saying a word in return.

“Still.” Aramis plucks Porthos’ bottle from his fingers, takes a considering sip – and then makes a face, because he doesn’t even fucking like beer, surely Porthos doesn’t need to remind him of that yet again. “I bet he likes having d’Artagnan facing him – underneath, of course – so he can gaze into his pretty eyes, and watch his breath catch as he fucks him slow and steady, twining that silky hair round his fingers.”

Porthos is – okay, he’s _really_ fucking disturbed to feel his cock swelling in his jeans.

“Aramis. He’s my best friend,” and his voice wasn’t supposed to come out this desperate, but fuck it. “I’ve known him since we were _twelve_ , for God’s sake.”

“What, and you love him like a brother?” Aramis asks, just a little sharply – _dangerously_ , even, and Porthos can’t help thinking of a cat showing its claws. “Completely platonic, am I right? Never a stray thought in all that time, never thought about your cock in his mouth or how it’d sound when he moaned your name?”

Porthos decides he’d love nothing right more in this moment than to tell a blatant lie.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t lie on principle, and especially not to Aramis.

“Fuckin’ hate you,” he mutters instead.

“Hate you too,” Aramis replies easily, snuggling closer and reaching for Porthos’ hand. “I’ve never known a queer person who wasn’t just a little in love with their straight best friend at one point. Or not so straight, in this case – but equally unattainable, am I right?”

“I had no idea,” Porthos sighs a little. “Though he’d probably never have admitted it even to himself. He had a lot of fucked-up ideas back then. You never met his parents, did you?” Aramis shakes his head. “Probably for the best. They’d have hated you.”

“For being myself? Well, fuck them very much,” Aramis says in a singsong, rolling his eyes. “So you’re to thank for him coming to terms with his man-loving self, is what I’m getting from this.”

“I guess,” Porthos concedes, unsure about taking all the credit; though on further consideration he’s fucking earned it, if he remembers some of the blazing rows they had back then, sulking for a few days before gravitating back towards each other with gritted teeth, Athos finally apologising with a quiet dignity that Porthos simultaneously envied and wanted to punch off of his posh face.

“I should have known,” Aramis replies with a warm, slow smile, leaning in to press a kiss to Porthos’ cheek where it’s smooth. “Saved me some work, anyway. Were you responsible for the tight jeans, too?”

“I don’t think he realises they’re tight,” Porthos manages, as his mind helpfully flashes up an extremely detailed illustration of exactly _which_ pair of jeans Aramis is referring to.

“Do me a favour then, baby,” Aramis leans in and whispers dramatically, “ _Never_ tell him.”

Porthos can’t help grinning, reaches for his beer again and has just taken a sip when Aramis continues, “So, what about d’Artagnan the Wonder Twink?”

Porthos chokes.

“Oh come on,” Aramis says, not even bothering to wait for him to stop coughing enough to get the words out. “He’s obscenely young and obscenely pretty, he just _oozes_ art school student, and he’s so _earnest._ I bet he just eats out of Athos’ hand.”

Pretending he’s never noticed the sheer level of adoration with which d’Artagnan looks at Athos, like he can’t quite believe he’s real, would be futile; and so Porthos settles for nodding his agreement. “They’re good together, yeah.”

“And if they weren’t together? We’d have had him by now, wouldn’t we, if Athos wouldn’t have killed us in our sleep?

“I’ve never thought about it. Honestly.”

Porthos, for all that he loves Aramis, thinks he’s pretty different. It’s certainly never occurred to him to entertain full-length, Technicolor fantasies about a mate’s boyfriend, for one. There are people who are possibles and people who are off-limits, and if someone’s off-limits then he can honestly say he’ll put it entirely from his mind.

“Alright,” Aramis murmurs, voice dropping into that low, sexy register that Porthos protests internally has got to count as _cheating_ , “so think about it now. Imagine we’d found him first. That we took him home, took him upstairs. Him stripping off his shirt, jeans riding low on his hips, a thin line of hair leading down, down…” Aramis’ own fingers curl into the waistband of Porthos’ jeans, stroking along the skin there with a light, teasing touch.

“Alright,” Porthos admits, knowing Aramis has got him again.

“See?” He sits back up again, reaching for another handful of crisps. “Not so hard, was it? Or actually, it probably was.” He grins, ridiculously pleased with himself. “So, who do you want to be?”

“What?”

“Do you want to be Athos or d’Artagnan?”

Porthos scrubs at his forehead, holding back a sigh. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

“Stoic and intense or wide-eyed and earnest?” Aramis pretends to think it over. “Well, I guess the question really is who you want to imagine yourself with. Do you want to be spread out beneath me while I hold your hands in mine and say,” he clears his throat, “ _come on then, tell me how much you want it?_ ”

The effect is uncanny. It’s like Athos’ voice coming out of Aramis’ mouth, the perfect mix of almost-bored and penetratingly expectant; and Porthos knew about Aramis’ voice lessons and persistent am-dram career but he’d never before thought about what it might _mean_ , and Aramis and Athos are so ridiculously unlike each other that it’s nothing short of terrifying.

He holds his hands up, almost as if to ward off a blow. “No. No, that’s just too fucking weird. You be d’Artagnan, then, if you really must.”

“Alright. Just let me go get in character.” Aramis gives a quick kiss to Porthos’ lips before bounding from the room, Porthos decides, there really is that much of a skip in his step.

He tries to put from his mind whatever ridiculous thing Aramis is sure to be up to in the bedroom, finishing his beer and enjoying his last few minutes of peace.

When Aramis comes back, hovering awkwardly in the doorway, it isn’t quite what he’d expected.

Okay, Aramis has apparently found the most d’Artagnan thing in his wardrobe – skinny jeans, Converse, a long-sleeved black T-shirt and a giant plaid scarf that almost swallows his head – but that’s only to be expected.

What gives Porthos pause is the way he leans against the doorframe, his usual easy swagger replaced with a pleased shyness – and underneath it all, d’Artagnan’s sense of passionate enthusiasm kept barely in check, not wanting to be too full-on too soon, but making himself so easy to love.

Easy even for Athos, who ever since Milady took him and broke him thought himself so hard to love by definition, until d’Artagnan – and it’s his newness, Porthos realises, the fact that he’s never known the man Athos used to be with her, the way he steps merrily into territory where Porthos and even Aramis have long feared to tread.

It’s d’Artagnan who’s helped Athos become the man they always knew he could be; and weird as it is, it’s that thought which convinces Porthos that he might just be able to do this.

“D’Artagnan,” he says, remembering to channel a little of Athos’ self-possession. “Do come in.”

Aramis walks awkwardly over to perch beside him on the sofa, leaning in for a quick kiss, as though he’s still nervous – hardly likely, Porthos thinks, Athos and d’Artagnan have been together for months. Unless he’s playing at the new, uncertain days of the relationship, in which case he supposes it’s his – Athos’ – job to put his lover at ease.

He puts a hand carefully on Aramis’ knee. “Shall we take this to the bedroom, then?” he asks, still carefully mimicking Athos’ manner of speaking, allowing one corner of his mouth to curl into a half-smile when Aramis blinks at him in shock. “Unless there was something else you’d rather do?”

“No! Bedroom’s good,” Aramis replies, with a shy smile, as if he’s only just realised he’s being teased, and finds he rather likes it.

Porthos holds out a hand; and Aramis takes it, lacing their fingers together as he stands, gently tugging on Porthos’ hand to encourage him along with him.

 _Athos would lead the way_ , Porthos thinks, and so he does too; and Aramis allows himself to be led, hurrying along behind him and near-vibrating with a nervous energy that Porthos has never seen from him before.

In the bedroom, they both hesitate suddenly; and Porthos doesn’t know if he’s over-egging it or what, but he has no way of knowing anyway so he decides to just go with his gut – and it’s telling him that d’Artagnan is his new start, the second chance for a good man who’d written himself off all too young.

Athos will never be very demonstrative, Porthos knows, but there’s no less passion for it; and Porthos as Athos will be a diligent lover, keeping contact between them, holding his beloved close and letting every look, every touch speak for him.

“Aren’t you going to kiss me then?” Aramis says cheekily, sticking his chin out in a challenge – and it’s alright, Porthos thinks, he could kinda see d’Artagnan saying that _,_ and so he puts his hands on Aramis’ waist, reels him in until their lips meet.

Aramis tastes of nacho cheese Doritos, and even the way he kisses is different, newly urgent, as if he’s trying to show his love through his actions, Porthos thinks, as if he’s scared of it being disbelieved. 

So when Aramis murmurs against his lips, “Come on then, babe, show me what you’ve got,” Porthos is immediately thrown out of the moment.

“D’Artagnan wouldn’t say ‘babe’,” he objects immediately, unaccountably annoyed.

“Would too. I overheard it once,” Aramis retorts, “and don’t break character.”

“Sorry,” Porthos replies, though he doesn’t really mean it, deciding that it’s best if they both shut up at this point and get back to the kissing – and Aramis cleaves to him in response, pressing against the length of Porthos’ body and making him harden in his jeans, helping him get into the physicality of it, if nothing else.

In fact he just about thinks he’s there, that he can ignore this whole Athos and d’Artagnan thing and just have some nice tender sex with his favourite partner when Aramis trails his fingers over Porthos’ bare stomach beneath his shirt, murmuring, “Athos. I want you to fuck me.”

The combination of being touched in a place where he’s sensitive – where Aramis knows he’s sensitive – and being called by his best friend’s name is just too much; and Porthos grips Aramis by the upper arms and pushes him gently away.

“Sorry babe, this is just too fucking weird,” he protests, resisting the temptation to fold his arms, and making himself hook his thumbs into his belt loops instead. “I’ve given it a go, but I’m done.”

He’s half-expecting Aramis to whine about it, and braces himself for the onslaught – but Aramis surprises him by just grinning cheerfully back at him. “Well, at least you tried. I didn’t think you would, to be honest.” He leans his body back into Porthos’, who can’t help taking a step back, Aramis following until he’s got him backed up fully against the wall. “Just as long as you’re not suggesting we abandon this entirely, when I’ve gone to all this effort seducing you.”

“What, by putting a scarf on?” Porthos scoffs, grateful to be back on familiar ground; and ignoring the way Aramis is starting to circle his hips back and forth against Porthos’ groin just so, and not pointing out that it’s not like he needs much seducing in any case.

“Oh, this scarf is actually d’Artagnan’s, he left it here last week. I thought it’d help me get into character.”

Porthos’ mouth falls open.

Surely not even _Aramis_ would go so far as to have sex with him while wearing d’Artagnan’s actual clothing.

In lieu of a response, he settles for pulling the scarf off Aramis’ neck as quickly as he can without running the risk of choking him, and tossing it to one side.

He should say something suitably cutting, Porthos knows, but cutting has never been his strong point; and in the end he settles for an amused yet weary, “What am I going to do with you, eh?” reaching up to graze his fingers along Aramis’ jaw.

“Well, I can think of something, if you need a little assistance,” Aramis replies cheekily, before turning his head and sucking Porthos’ first two fingers into his mouth.

As long as it doesn’t involve any more roleplay _,_ Porthos decides as he walks Aramis backwards and tackles him to the bed, then he’s sure it’s alright by him.


End file.
